


A Mind Palace is never built in a day, and torture leaves its mark.

by AliasAnonymous



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Bullied Sherlock, Crying Sherlock, Doctor Watson, Gen, Happily Ever After, John comforts, Kinda Dark, Minor Swearing, Padded Room, Protective John, Sherlock sick, Sherlocks in a padded cell, fandom theory, minor torture, platonic johnlock - Freeform, remember mind palace theory, restrained sherlock, selective mutism, sherlock in a straitjacket and muzzle, sherlock relives memory, sherlock theory, valium abuse, very sorry about that last part, weird last one's a category, young sherlock in memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 14:45:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6380485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliasAnonymous/pseuds/AliasAnonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cases always have some toll on the genius detective, but when one major case ends Sherlock's inexhaustible energy gives out beneath him leaving him with a high fever and John's loving care. But Sherlock proves to be a difficult patient as his fevered dreams bring back repressed memories of his time spent in a padded cell. With memories of torture and imprisonment triggered by the thing that is only meant to heal him John can't understand why Sherlock has to be so difficult, not until Sherlock tells him of that time in a padded cell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Mind Palace is never built in a day, and torture leaves its mark.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt I got on my new blog, Imagine Johnlock, and I wanted to post it here too.  
> This is just a theory of why Sherlock has a padded cell (where he keeps Moriarty alive and chained in his mind) as the rules of a Mind Palace dictate that a person needs to have been there to use it and so Sherlock must have been there some how. Please enjoy but if anything in the trigger warnings triggers you please don't as I'd prefer you not to read my story then be triggered.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Mention of minor torture, padded cell, forced ingestion of Valium, straitjacket, minor swearing, lack of eating and resting because of a case. Also selective mutism.
> 
> Cheers, and enjoy!xx

It had been a long, tiring, couple of months at 221 B Baker St.

Sherlock had been dealing with a case of utmost priority and strict confidentiality. It had been one of the occasional cases where Sherlock was adamant that John kept out of the public eye. It wasn’t rare that Sherlock told John not to post a case on his blog, usually he allowed the press to die down around the story before he published and disclosed many of its secrets, the hidden nooks and crannies of the story that had allowed Sherlock to solve its mystery, and the true damage his friend had helped prevent from even happening. Whether he waited months or years before releasing the story, he only ever did so under Sherlock’s approval and sometimes under his suggestion.

This was not to be one of those cases, even had he waited a decade to publish, any information given to the wrong person or network would have Sherlock’s entire work unravelled and he would not do that to his friend. This was strictly to be kept in his journals where should he find it again when he is old and grey or his friend had long passed on to a world more needing of him John could read over and remember this time, recall a lost memory to relieve again.

***

“Well, glad that’s done then. Tea?” John asked dropping his keys onto the counter as he prepared a fresh pot. 

There was no reply from his usually mumbling friend, so he turned to look over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock had gotten out of the cab and had followed him into their apartment. He knew Sherlock would sometimes become so absorbed into his mind palace that he wouldn’t recognize a change of surroundings and sometimes not even realize there even had been a change of his surroundings and only after rummaging through the fridge to see if Mrs. Hudson had left them anything to make a sandwich from did John realize Sherlock had not followed up behind him and running back out he was met with the amusing scene of a cab driver trying to convince an unresponsive Sherlock to get out of his cab. Thankfully this time Sherlock had gotten out of the cab and followed him up to their apartment.

“Sherlock?”, he called stepping into their little parlour.

The man was there at least, physically anyway, but he was sitting on the couch with his knees pulled in and his hands clapped together, resting his chin upon his fingers and staring in deep thought at the fireplace in front of him. With him staying still, for once, John could actually give him a proper inspection. Though he stayed where he stood it was obvious now, where he hadn’t seen before, that there were definite dark crescents under each fevered eye almost as if he had two black eyes, but John had been with him for the duration of the case and only when Sherlock needed some space to think and had gone for a long walk was John seperated from him, but each time he had returned unblemished. Stepping closer John saw how thin his friend actually was, his cheeks were sunken, cheekbones like razors, the arch of his spine more prominent, and his usual sharp chin more pointed then John remembered ever seeing before. John thought back over the case Sherlock had just solved trying to remember the last time he had seen his friend eat, the last time he had slept. John knew well how hard it was to convince Sherlock to eat while he was working, especially considering how he liked to think things out by speaking his thoughts out loud and with his mouth full of food it would be near impossible for him to do so, but surely after months of travelling in Western Europe Sherlock had eaten. All John could recall though was Sherlock shoveling small meals down before scampering off to unearth another piece of the puzzle and sleeping only when the boundless energy he seemed to have gave out and he would either collapse from pure exhaustion or voluntarily allow John to put him to bed.

“Listen Sherlock, I’m running to the shops to get some food, what would you like?”, John was a doctor, he knew when a person needed to eat and the effects of them becoming malnourished but he didn’t really know how to go about ensuring they did eat, hopefully he could just hand Sherlock something and he’d eat it on autopilot.

John was tired, they had just spent the last three months gallivanting around western Europe and all he wanted to do was just have a shower and sleep for a week, but Sherlock needed food and then to be put to bed so John put aside his wants and took a cab to the nearest supermarket.

He hadn’t been gone twenty minutes when upon his return Sherlock had mumbled his name and slid off the couch to the floor.

—–

“I’m not a child you know.” Sherlock mumbled stubbornly as John handed him two tablets and a glass of water,

“I’m not treating you like one, Sherlock you are sick and as your doctor-”

Sherlock scoffed, and John flinched, “As your friend!” He snapped, now Sherlock flinched, John sighed, his friends disregard for his own health was really doing a number on John’s patience which was already short considering the amount of sleepless nights he had had over the past week as he cared for Sherlock, fetching him glasses of water in the night, when his hacking coughs woke him or just listening to his friend be sick in the bathroom knowing full well that if he went into help him Sherlock would snap at him and push him away, insisting he didn’t need help as he would lean on the wall for support. He’d be embarrassed to be showing weakness that John just couldn’t add that to his friends misery but he would lie awake anyway in his bed just to listen out to make sure Sherlock managed to get back to bed without collapsing.

“I’m not taking them.” Sherlock whispered frowning down at his crossed arms above the covers. John pinched the bridge of his nose, he didn’t know why his friend was being so difficult, he had taken the tablets John had handed him yesterday without complaint, without thanks either but he had taken them.

“Sherlock, you have a fever, you are vomiting every night, you are unwell and these will help you get better!” John snapped wanting to shove the damned tablets down the man’s throat.

“I didn’t know you knew about that.” Sherlock said quietly, he didn’t look John in the eye but he reached his hand out to take the tablets from John. Dry swallowing he coughed once more before taking the other and shuddering.

John recognized Sherlock’s attempt at an apology and thanked him. It stuck with him though, through out the day as he worked at the clinic and ate alone watching crap telly, an activity he resorted to after it became clear that Sherlock needed rest and John had wanted entertainment while being semi-housebound to take care of Sherlock, the only times he left was when he had to go to work, checking up on Sherlock during his lunch breaks, and when he needed to go for a supply run to the nearest supermarket.

Why had Sherlock suddenly become difficult, well more so, when he’d seen the tablets John needed him to take? There wasn’t a problem with taking them before, what invoked this sudden change?John didn’t know if it was better to wait till Sherlock was healthy again to ask him or the next time he had to give him the tablets, the first was probably better but he ran the risk of Sherlock already having forgotten about it, clearing room on his mental ‘hard-drive’, so John chose the latter.

“Sherlock?”, now that he was beginning his question John wasn’t sure if he had a right to ask, maybe the matter was personal, maybe Sherlock had a Great-Aunt who had died swallowing tablets like these, becoming asphyxiated before someone could help her and now his question would bring back these awful memories.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, expecting John to continue, but he had just traumatized himself and didn’t want his fears t be confirmed nor remind his friend of a family loss,

“Ehh, never mind, doesn’t matter.” John regretted saying anything now, surely Sherlock wouldn’t push him on it?

Sherlock drew in a breath and by the sound John knew he was not going to be let off so easily, he had just enough time to compare jumping out the window or hurting his friends feelings before Sherlock went on his deductive rant,

“The hand that wasn’t holding the tablets you had clenched into a fist, something is troubling you so deeply that you have subconsciously gone into a fight or flight response though you are not acting on it, or have just chosen flight, but because you’re a military man you have been trained to fight but as you are also a doctor and have a heart you seem to have wanted to spare mine, you’re standing a foot further away then where you usually stand when you hand me the retched tablets-ohh, seeing as you just performed the same tick you have when you are trying to hide something, you tapped your left thigh with your index finger followed by two taps with your middle finger, what you’re trying to spare me of has to do with those tablets but as you waited till I swallowed them to say anything I assume that your question has to do with my reaction yesterday?”

Sherlock concluded with a smug grin and John was again struck with amazement at his friends perceptiveness and reasoning abilities no matter how irritating they can be, he did not wish to lie to him so he simply nodded his confirmation, his question had definitely been about Sherlock’s reaction towards the tablets.

“Thank you for that by the way, you cannot believe how bored I was becoming, soon fevered dreams and your visits won’t be enough.” Sherlock sighed, and raising himself further up he sat leaning against the headboard, he closed his eyes and sighed. He didn’t say anything else for so long that John was beginning to think that he never will and that he had fallen asleep but as John was looking around for a spot to sit down besides the bed Sherlock began to speak, low and quietly,

“I could give you the short answer which is, “They remind me.”, but you would persist with your question ,“Of what?”, so I might as well tell you the long answer, but don’t worry I’ll stop anytime you feel uncomfortable.“ Sherlock remained with his eyes closed as John sat down on the side of the bed near Sherlock’s legs, careful not to break Sherlock’s concentration.

"I know I took them quite easily previously and my sudden difficulty must confuse you, as I have a fever I have strangely vivid dreams, dreams I have not had for a long time, of places I have not been for a long time.” Sherlock paused again before speaking, drawing in deep breaths, was he trying to calm himself?

“Sherlock you don’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, you can tell me why another time.” John hated seeing his best friend so troubled, he wanted to stop all his discomfort and just hug him but he knew Sherlock would reject his touch,

Sherlock shook his head, keeping his eye’s closed he continued, “When I was thirteen, I was still the height I was when I was ten and very scrawny, my deductions, though small and which I thought were unimportant and harmless, made me very quickly a prime target for idiotic wankers who did not appreciate my knowledge of their personal lives or their involvement in small crimes. Unaware what I could do to defend myself I developed severe anxiety around my, for want of a better word, peers. And speaking became suddenly a negative thing that could lead to my getting hurt and as I could not tell what were safe conversational topics and what was their private information I went through a period of selective mutism, my mother being worried for me sent me to many doctors, all of which could only recommend a therapist which eventually she did bring me to. I remember him clearly, grey cold eyes, untidy hair, and a slightly mad exaggeration of speaking. He recommended a clinic for my mother to bring me to, assured her it was for strict overnight observation and that from there he would have me singing like a choirboy. Never understood his metaphors, singing wasn’t my problem. The clinic was horrible, all white and spotless with the smell of disinfectant and fear lingering in your nose long after you left, there was no colour or paintings of flowers on the walls like the kind I was used to in other childrens’ hospitals, though they assured this place was for kids I distinctly remember hearing a man singing about bluebirds and how he would like to stamp on them as the therapist ushered me along to what would be my room, my little hell. What was meant to be one night of observation became two, then three, and soon a whole week had passed. My family were not allowed visit me, and Mycroft was away in boarding school so I could not write for him to come and help me, I tried once to send a letter and they ripped it out of my hands and burned it in front of me. I had become a little prisoner and soon their experiment. My fear, and yes I was terrified, the nurses looked like they’d rather choke you than hear you speak, guards at all doors, unfriendly and severe looking as nuns, and bars along my window so I couldn’t fit out if I somehow managed to open it, my fear, though great was not as strong as my irritation. It shortened my temper and sharpened my mind and I became their little terror as I had no problem spilling their personal secrets in front of their coworkers and superiors, all the affairs, and crimes, the lies and thoughts, all were revealed when they refused to give me what I wanted and I wanted out. Somehow I managed to blackmail a nurse into emailing Mycroft, telling him where I was and that I needed him. We got caught though, I was not allowed out of my room you see and there I was using a nurse’s computer while she was sitting in the corner crying about what her life would become. The therapist was furious at the guards who I had managed to slip by unnoticed and they were in turn very bitter towards me, he decided I must learn a lesson and so he left the guards to decide how I would learn. As I mentioned before I had spilled many of their secrets, and now was where that all backlashed. They forced me into a straitjacket and dragged me into the "Rubber room”, a padded cell, where they put a muzzle on me and clipped the jacket to a short chain that hooked into the wall.“ Tears fell down his cheek and without even realizing he was doing it John had moved up to sit beside Sherlock and was pulling him in, gripping him tight.

Sherlock bowed his head to John’s shoulder and tried to repress the shaking that had overcome him as he recounted painful memories, his usual emotionless detached mask forgotten as he held John tight and tried to gain back control. John hated, hated, how his friend had been treated, he wanted to find those monsters and make them feel the fear and the pain they made Sherlock feel, he would use every resource he had if Sherlock just gave the word and he would return with their heads on a stick. For now though all he could do was hold tight to Sherlock’s slender form and vow to never let him be treated like that again, to promise he would never allow anyone to hurt him like that again.

"Anyway,” Sherlock sniffed, pulling out from John’s arms.

“No, Sherlock, you’ve said enough-”

“Please, please John let me finish, don’t make me stop on that memory.” The plea in his voice made John nod and allow Sherlock to finish his horrific memory,

“Anyway, they left me isolated there for a week, only came in every second day to give me a drink of water, one meal and a silver tablet.”

John had been staring at the floor as he let his friend finish but when the tablet was mentioned his head snapped up, Sherlock only nodded when John stared at him,  
“Christ Sherlock.”

“It’s alright, you didn’t know, how could you? I didn’t even remember till one particularly nasty dream where I was back in the rubber room.”

“If I had known-

"You would have stopped giving me those tablets immediately in favour of ones that didn’t look so similiar to the ones I had to take in the clinic. I know and I am grateful.”

“I’m sorry, ehh, finish what you were saying.”

“Anyway, the silver tablet knocked me out, I think it was Valium, in proper prescriptions it can be used to treat seizures, anxiety, muscle spasms and symptoms of alcohol withdrawal, but their dosage and my bodies reaction to the drug, plus the fact I was never having a seizure or going through any alcohol withdrawal when they gave it to me meant I felt a lot more side effects and with an increased rate, you know what the side effects for Valium is?”

“Course, drowsiness, dizziness, spinning sensation, fatigue, ataxia (loss of balance), irritability-”

“Memory problems, restlessness, muscle weakness, drooling, nausea, slurred speech, double vision, loads of things that allowed them to convince my parents when they insisted on my release, Mycroft had sent them, that I needed to stay where I was, to be properly treated, they convinced them I had gotten sick and was to weak to be moved to another hospital. Plus the prolonged stay in the straitjacket was causing me health problems too, wearing one for long periods of time can be quite painful, blood tends to pool in the elbows where it would then swell, causing more pain and discomfort, lack of proper circulation made my hands become numb, and due to bone and muscle stiffness my upper arms and shoulders experienced great pain. Finally though I awoke one morning to a different room, it was a hospital room but not the cell-like ones I had grown accustomed to, somehow friendlier, I had a few needles and tubes stuck in me but Mycroft was there, he told me that when he heard that mother and father had failed on getting me released he had researched and bullied his way onto information that allowed that clinic I was at to be shut down and the therapist that recommended it to lose his license. It turns out that I had been there for just under a month and after another week at this new hospital where my injuries healed and I was weaned off my new dependency on Valium I was allowed home again. My parents changed my school and though I was still selectively mute, it wasn’t as bad and my mother never sought after another therapist.”

“Jesus.” John sniffed wiping at his own cheeks, “Remind me to send a Thank You card to Mycroft.”

Sherlock scoffed at this and John chuckled,

“Don’t worry I send him one annually.” Sherlock giggled, John didn’t know why but somehow that was almost the funniest thing in the world to him, imagining Mycroft all serious opening a vibrant, flowery card, and cause it’s Sherlock he was undoubtedly sure that all it said inside was “Much appreciated, Sherlock.”


End file.
